JINGYI
Goodbyes had never been her strength, mostly because she never had much practice. She’d spent most of her life as someone who didn’t matter, flitting from corner to corner, shadow to shadow.
But lately, it felt as though she’d done nothing but say goodbye. To people. To places. To versions of herself she’d outgrown, or that had been stripped from her.
She was a coward about it, too—someone who slipped away through back doors and left her heart behind in ink and parchment. She’d written letters—to Yrenna, to Ulrik and Annett, to Daan and his family. Even to Lord and Lady Reave, and to Aliz. No words would ever be enough, but she hoped they’d understand.
It felt strange—to choose, to put oneselffirst. As a child, her world had been the cautious orbit around her mother’s fragile moods, a dance of tiny steps meant never to disturb. As a girl, she bent to the whims of her teachers, colleagues, the nobles of Peony Court, and the emperor’s will. As a married woman, she’d moulded herself to the needs of her husband, his home, and his people.
Now, in the silence of her own mind, the axis shifted. The compass needle, frozen for so long toward every pole but her own, finally trembled and pointed inward.
She’d said farewell to Conrad the evening before. He was well enough to stand now, but still bore the marks of what they’d survived.
‘You’re braver than most men I know,’ he’d said with a solemnity that was so unlike him. ‘And far more stubborn.’
She’d smiled then. ‘And you’re braver than any knight I know.’
He flushed but said nothing more. She knew he didn’t like her decision, but he accepted it.
Darion, she’d found near the stables, overseeing the final preparations for her escort. As always, he bowed with that carelessness only he could get away with.
‘You kept me alive,’she’d said,‘even when it was inconvenient.’
‘You kept yourself alive, Highness,’he replied,‘but I’m glad I was there to see it.’
She inclined her head, not trusting herself to say more. They’d never spoken at length, but she had come to trust the solid, silent certainty of his presence at her back. From here onwards, Xu Haorán, who was returning with her to Changzihua, would be her escort.
Adelise was the easiest to part with. There was no ache in their farewell, only a promise to see each other again in Changzihua next year when the Tremorian princess became ShunLi’s bride. Their goodbye was more of a pause than an ending.
She didn’t say goodbye to Alexander.
He, in turn, didn’t seek her. She saw him only once more: in the cold, formal chamber where King Ferdinand granted her request and officially annulled their marriage. Alexander waspresent, standing with the stillness of a sentinel. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at her beyond a single, fleeting glance that felt like a door closing. His feelings were locked away behind that blue gaze as he went through the final act of honour she’d asked him to show her.
It was for the best, she convinced herself. They had already said everything in the garden, and more than words could say in the dark of her room. To speak now would only unravel the resolve she’d knitted together from pain and principle.
And it would be unfair to still rely on him for kindness.
Still, his absence was a physical emptiness, as if the future itself had been scooped from her chest, and she was expected to carry on, lighter and lesser.
So it caught her utterly off guard when, on the day of her departure, she stepped onto the dock at Terresard and found him already there.
He stood beside the gangplank, still and waiting. His clothing was fastened with meticulous care, but his hair was windblown and unbraided, as if he’d abandoned the small rituals of control to get here in time.
Something inside her splintered at the sight of him. She stepped closer, the salt air suddenly sharp in her lungs. “You came.”
He nodded, his expression solemn, stripped of all armour. “I wanted a final chance to say goodbye.”
The words hung between them, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. She opened her mouth, the formal farewell on her tongue. “Then I’ll say?—”
His hand closed around her wrist and pulled her in. Gentle. Decisive. Her chest met his, her breath vanishing between them. Then his arms came around her, and she was embraced—by his strength, by his aching tenderness, by the scent of spruce and winter sun that would haunt her long after she was gone. Heartstuttering, throat burning, she closed her eyes and buried her face against his throat.
She’d expected it to hurt. But she hadn’t expected it to feel likethis—like being torn from her own anchor.
Without warning, he took her chin and kissed her.
When his lips met hers—firm, warm, heartbreakingly gentle—her body answered before thought could catch up. Her hands curled into the wool of his cloak. She leaned in, chasing the press of his mouth, aching for the illusion of permanence it offered.
He kissed her like a man desperate to remember.
